


drowning

by kinneyb



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-11-27 05:55:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18190628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinneyb/pseuds/kinneyb
Summary: He could find Julia before it was too late - tell her how he'd been feeling the last few days, like he was constantly on the edge of a cliff.She would understand - she always did.But he doesn't, and he won't.Sighing, Quentin lifted the knife to his left arm and closed his eyes.





	drowning

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: please do not read if the subject of self harm & mental health is triggering for u!!
> 
> just wanted to do something to explore quentin's mental health this season cause he's obviously been really, really not doing well and i wish the show would remember that he's, u know, clinically depressed and a risk to himself
> 
> ★ please follow me on twitter @ queermight & check out my pinned tweet! ★

Quentin stared down at the sharp blade, glistening under the moonlight coming from the window. He tilted his head a little, reached out to feel the edge of the blade - it was sharp, so sharp his finger came back bloody. Just a drop or two, of course, but he still stared at the blood. Squinted his eyes. It was a pretty color, really.

He scooted back on the bed, resting against the headboard as he finally properly picked up the knife. It was heavy in his hand; a stark reminder of what he was about to do. Quentin glanced at the door. He could find Julia before it was too late - tell her how he'd been feeling the last few days, like he was constantly on the edge of a cliff.

She would understand - she always did.

But he doesn't, and he won't.

Sighing, Quentin lifted the knife to his left arm and closed his eyes. With a deep breath, he cut one long slice across his forearm. The pain wasn't that bad, really, just a dull pressure. Probably because the knife was so sharp.

He opened his eyes. Blood pooled at the injury, running off the side of his arms and dripping on his shirt. He didn't care. 

So he cut again, and again, and again.

Finally, the pain was there, his lungs gasping for air. Shaking his head, he tossed the knife in the trash and searched for the towels he'd grabbed earlier. Wrapping his arm up messily, he crawled under the covers and slowly dozed off.

/

No one noticed. To be fair, he wasn't stupid, so he made sure to wear sweaters and stuff. No one said anything even when it was blistering hot, so he was pretty sure he was golden. Everyone was so busy with something else.

But then suddenly they weren't, and Eliot was alive and in front of him and hugging Margo for dear life. He blinked a few times. He should've been gushing with emotions, and he was happy - so, so happy - but it was like a dull feeling in the back of his mind. Too distant to actually feel, but just close enough he knew it was there.

He subconsciously rubbed his hand over the scars on his left arm.

Quentin didn't move or say anything, but he didn't have to. After he was done hugging Margo, Eliot turned to him and grinned like a fool. He smiled back.

"I missed you," Eliot said, hugging him. He buried his face in Quentin's hair, sighing.

Quentin slowly reached up, snaking his arms around Eliot's waist. "I missed you, too."

/

They need to talk - about them, about their feelings - but they don't. We don't have to, Eliot had said once everyone had calmed down later that day, not yet. He was on the couch with Quentin curled up in his arms.

No one had looked that surprised, and Eliot had glanced at Quentin curiously, but he didn't really have answers. He hadn't voiced their relationship, but he was sure he hadn't been all that discreet. He'd been too focused on saving Eliot no matter the cost.

"How about we go get some rest?" Eliot said after a few minutes, running a hand up and down Quentin's back.

Quentin nodded. They both stood up. Then, he remembered the cuts on his arm. He lingered for just a moment too long. Eliot gently touched his arm. "Q, is everything okay?"

"I," Quentin swallowed around the lump in his throat. "Yeah."

Eliot didn't look convinced, but he nodded anyway. He smiled comfortingly and took Quentin's hand. "Come, come," he said, dragging him to the bedroom. He started to undress the moment they were alone, but Quentin stayed still. "Have you suddenly decided you prefer sleeping in," he gestured aimlessly, an amused smile on his face.

"Not," Quentin stared down at his body, "exactly."

"Okay," Eliot said. He sat on the edge of the bed and spread his legs, extending his arms. "Come here."

Quentin hesitated for just a few seconds. Then, he slowly walked over to stand between Eliot's legs. Eliot's hands fell to rest on his hips, squeezing gently.

"I know something is bothering you," was his opening line. "You can tell me."

Quentin stared at a spot on the wall. "I was really upset when you were... gone," he said eventually. He rubbed at the scars under his sleeve. "I haven't been that," he finally tore his eyes away from the wall, focusing on Eliot - Eliot with his sweet eyes and encouraging smile, hands warm on his skin. "I hadn't been that upset in a really long time, El."

"Okay," Eliot whispered. He ran his hands up and down Quentin's sides. "I was upset, too, Q."

Quentin smiled weakly. "I used to, uh, have this habit." Eliot didn't interrupt, just continued to touch him. "Jules knows. Probably cause she found me once... after. I'm not sure I would've told her if she hadn't."

"What is it?" Eliot asked softly.

Quentin looked away. He didn't want Eliot to know - or maybe he already had a clue; Quentin had been in a mental institution more than once. But still. This was different - this was confirming he was out of his fucking mind. Eliot deserved better, and it was only a matter of time before he realized that.

"Q?" Eliot interrupted his thoughts. "You can tell me," he repeated.

"Right," Quentin muttered. Taking a shaky breath, he rolled up the sleeve of his sweater. He didn't make a big deal of presenting his arm, but the scars were pretty hard to miss anyway, stretching across his forearm in red, puffy lines. He swallowed audibly. "I'm sorry." He wasn't sure what he was apologizing for, but it felt like the right thing to do.

Slowly, Eliot reached out to grasp his arm - gently, of course - and examined the scars.

"Q," he whispered. Quentin suddenly felt like he was the worst person in the world.

"I'm sorry," he said again, quieter. "I don't know why I - I hadn't done it in so long, but - "

Eliot pulled him closer, burying his face in Quentin's stomach. "I'm so sorry," his words were muffled. "I should've been here."

"If you'd been here," Quentin lifted his hands, resting them on Eliot's shoulders, "I'm not sure I would've..." he laughed wetly, playing with the ends of Eliot's hair, "actually I'm not sure what I would've done. I just don't think - I'm not in a good place, El, and everything's happening, so I can't take a breather and I think - "

He blinked back tears.

"I think I'm fucking terrified of myself right now."

Eliot pulled away just enough to look up at Quentin. His eyes were red around the edges. "We're going to get through this," he said. "Then, we're going to help you. Whatever you think you need, we'll do it."

"I," Quentin swallowed a sob, "I think I'm kind of in love with you."

Eliot laughed wetly. He took Quentin's arm back in his hands, gently tracing the scars with his thumbs. "We have to do what we can for now, though," he cleared his throat, "which means if you have an urge to - to do this again, you come to me, okay? We can talk, drink, fuck - I don't care, but you come to me, okay?"

"Okay," Quentin whispered. He smiled shakily. "Okay."

Maybe things would be okay. With a lot of time and effort, but still. For the first time in a while Quentin had hope.


End file.
